


Consequence (Of What You Do To Me)

by orphan_account



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Charles You Will Be Drunk, Crimes & Criminals, Erik Logic Is The Best Logic, Forced Prostitution, Journalism, M/M, Sex Trafficking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2016-07-28
Packaged: 2018-06-04 17:08:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6667156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When investigative journalist Charles Xavier is convicted of libel after publishing disastrous allegations against a wealthy corporation, he is faced with the choice of either losing the trial or revealing his greatest secret—his uncanny ability to read the mind of any person he touches. But his charges come with more than their fair share of consequences: in attempting to expose Lehnsherr Group for its involvement in sex trafficking, Charles inadvertently piques the interest of its CEO, the persuasive criminal Erik Lehnsherr. (Loosely based on The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Some info on the relationships in this fic: honestly, there are quite a few that are mentioned in passing (all of which take place in the past). This includes Emma Frost/En Sabah Nur and a (very brief) Charles/Scott affair. The En Sabah Nur/Charles is one sided, though I've tagged it as it will crop up intermittently.
> 
> As for powers, hopefully it effectively comes across, but Charles is still a telepath. The only difference in this verse is that he can only read thoughts via skin contact. Everyone else has their canon powers, save for En Sabah Nur/Apocalypse who in this fic has a similar ability of, ahem, 'persuasion' also when touching skin-to-skin. 
> 
> My notes for this fic are over a year old so coming back to it has been hard, but man... do I have too many wips. I didn't think to start posting it for the longest time because I couldn't think of a suitable title. Also, this is my first attempt at a/b/o ! It's a bit experimental stylistically, so bear with me. And more importantly, there will be no non-con whatsoever between Erik and Charles!! Anyway, hope that clears some things up beforehand. Enjoy this hot mess of angst :^]

Every news outlet in Stockholm had a reporter stationed on the courthouse steps by the time Charles emerged a quarter after two that afternoon. He felt no compunction to indulge them with trite words, not after spending most of the morning fluctuating between stubborn defensiveness and his own crushing certainty of the trial’s conclusion. The two made for a nervous, frothy tangle of emotions that left his stomach crampy and his throat raw—though he’d done his fair share of listening and _listening_ as the morning wore on.

To put it plainly, he was exhausted. That hardly stopped the lucky few at the front of the crowd from surging forward into his personal space.

“Mr. Xavier!” exclaimed a young woman in a tweed suit-jacket and pencil skirt. _Very_ young, Charles thought reasonably, as not even three seconds later she was shoving a microphone in his face. Her own was flushed red. “Kitty Pryde, I’m with TV4. I believe I can speak for your readership here in Stockholm when I say we’re all eager to know how the charges of aggravated libel levied against you today will affect _Millennium_ ’s future. Are the rumors true? Do you intend to leave your post as senior editor?”

 _Shite_. Charles could forgive the girl her social faux paus—in all his years working in the public eye, he’d long since given up any qualms about the waggling tongues in the mouths of less credible reporters. As many times as his more tactless exposés had brought the magazine under thorough scrutiny, he’d somehow managed to scrounge up a reputation as a minor celebrity in the area of political journalism. He hardly need imagine the bland Wikipedia tripe: _Charles Xavier, age 42 and born in Westchester County, New York, is an omega known for his work in investigative journalism at the helm of the popular left-wing magazine Millennium..._

Polite society was laxer nowadays, but it still stood for omegas, at least, that invading their personal space was considered quite rude. Kitty Pryde held herself so close to Charles’ person that he immediately stiffened at the first whiff of her heady perfume. He knew at once that she was a beta—the perfume was a dime-store _alpha musk enhancer_ , a cheap buffer in common use amongst betas who worked in the business world; to garner respect, presumably.

She must have forgotten she’d put it on this morning in her haste to make it to the courthouse on time. Freshman reporters tended to get the shaft when it came to assignments; no doubt it was incredibly last minute.

“No comment,” Charles said hurriedly, dodging the big camera lens angling just over the reporter’s shoulder, and moved briskly down the remaining steps. He wasn’t sixteen years old. He knew the difference between an enhancer and the real thing—the former left a distinct aftertaste on the roof of his mouth. But caught up in the moment, his nerves made them hard to differentiate.

And the very last thing Charles needed was the lingering anxiety of having an alpha too close for comfort. It made him feel exposed.

His mood began to nosedive as soon as the next line of reporters rushed toward him. It took a number of well-placed jabs with his elbows to part the remaining crowd. He staunchly ignored every call for his attention, every untrue rumor they spouted to get a rise out of him, and at one point, a few crass names Charles hadn’t heard in reference to his person since _preparatory school_. He kept his face resolutely blank and breathed through his mouth.

January in Stockholm was often an absolute nightmare, as Charles came to learn after several decades living in the city. It was brutally cold, though the buildings in the main plaza saved him from most of the wind-chill, and the sky was dark enough for so early in the morning that rain, heavy snow, or a mixture of both was fairly imminent.

Falling into the taxi at the corner avenue was the greatest relief he had felt all day.

 _Perhaps I’ve been too prideful_ , he couldn’t help but think. He chided himself quietly, pressed against the door of the taxi as he watched the streets pass in a hazy blur. The window felt blessedly cool against his cheek.

Gabrielle had warned him not to go through with the damning exposé in this month’s issue of _Millennium_. But by the time it was to go to print, he’d already written thirty pages to take up the issue’s total of forty-six; and _oh_ , he had thought foolishly, _this will be perfect_.

Three months ago, Charles received a tip from an old classmate over drinks in Kvarnen. He hadn’t seen Hank McCoy in nearly a decade, and their meeting was an almost perfect accident—an all-girl punk band was playing at the bar, and Hank was out on a date with one of the groupies. Charles just so happened to be there after a long evening at the magazine offices going over last-minute edits with his co-owner, Gabrielle Haller.

One thing led to the next; he and Hank recognized each other over the tizzy of drunk teenagers and the overbearing musk of pubescent alphas, and although he could recall Hank playing the part of the timid omega to a T in their youth, they were both much too old to be bothered by these things anymore. They’d shared a good laugh, several more beers, and then Hank had looked at Charles very seriously.

He must have been keeping up with Charles over the years, because he already knew all about Charles’ work in financial journalism—outlining the illegal activities of modern corporations with a blunt, honest eye for detail in the pages of _Millennium_. Then he’d given the rest of the bar a hasty, nervous glance and lowered his voice. He’d asked what Charles knew about Lehnsherr Group.

As far as sources went, Hank had very little to offer other than oddities he’d noted in certain paperwork during his time at a pharmaceutical company owned by Lehnsherr Group. The parent corporation was German based, and it was known primarily for its business in mining and arms manufacturing.

Charles was already slurring from the effects of the alcohol, but somehow he managed to spout off what he _did_ know: Lehnsherr Group’s assets totaled in the one-hundred billions, but as far as he knew, their trades were over the table, legal, and the company’s CEO was largely untouchable.

The taxi dropped Charles off at his apartment in Södermalm twenty minutes after he left the courthouse. It had begun to rain, and the old slush lingering from the snowstorm Thursday night was slippery beneath his perfectly unblemished dress shoes.

In the city district, the cobblestone streets were tight and narrow. They always made Charles feel claustrophobic, though mercifully, the rain was a balm against his scent receptors. He wasn’t plagued by the cloying scent of the omega male who lived in the apartment on the second floor, whose tendency was to leave the window open to air out the rooms. There was always something decidedly _other_ underlying the scent—the couple’s four year old child, perhaps. Whatever the case, it never failed to make Charles’ heart beat twice as fast.

 _Christ’s sake_ , he only ever wanted to go home to bed.

For a short while, Charles stood before the stoop of his apartment complex, hugging his coat tighter around himself. Then he came to a decision.

He needed to get drunk. Right now. Immediately.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He checked it, hating the sudden tension that locked his spine. He smeared the rain drops from the screen. _Gaby Haller – Missed Call (6)._

Bugger.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgot to mention, but the title of this fic is from the song "Myth" by Beach House.

Charles had a secret. A great big one—and it was the very reason he dove headfirst down the shitter to begin with.

The first time Charles had ever been with an alpha, he was a freshman attending Oxford at seventeen. It was the spring of ’75, and omegan rights had made leaps and bounds since suffrage was first introduced in the 30s. And yet, university was still the most freeing experience of his life after growing up in the prudish style of the high class. In that respect, his mother and stepfather had made certain he lived as chaste as a newborn lamb up until he left home for the first time.

The alpha’s name was Scott Summers, a quiet boy Charles met in a developmental biology seminar one early February. That was back before Charles was certain he wanted to major in journalism, and at the time he was still on track for a genetics degree.

Scott had a way with words that set him apart from other alphas; that, and his disposition was as sweet as they came. They became fast friends. Then, at a late-night party some weeks later, Scott invited Charles up to the second floor landing and into a stranger’s bed.

Charles had been afraid. His mother once told him that it only took one mistake to become incontrovertibly tied to an alpha. The thought amused Charles to no end in the present day. He’d been naïve, but then again, the birds and the bees of alphas and omegas had been a hushed subject in schools of that time. All he knew was that an alpha knotted, then bit, then—well. He had a general picture.

He remembered the way he had shivered, laid out on top of the sheets. The room was sparse: there was the bed in one corner, a shelf and tiny desk by the window, and a closet. Only two things hung on the wall, and they were a poster of Marlene Dietrich and a clock. The clock read ten after eleven.

He also remembered the way Scott had laughed. Charles hadn’t found it funny. Rather, as soon as he’d gathered his courage, and Scott was entering him— _[so wet, you’re so_ wet _]_ —he realized that Scott hadn’t spoken a single word aloud.

An alpha and an omega can imprint only once in their entire life, then they are bound until death. Betas can do as they please without consequence. But for an alpha-omega pair... it’s possible only when completely intentional. When an alpha’s knot begins to swell, they may feel compelled to _bite_ , but they’d done studies on such things in the early 60s. An alpha was always perfectly lucid; an omega was always perfectly not.

Charles didn’t really remember much after—the pleasure was  almost too much, falling and cresting again in bright bursts as Scott rocked into him. Slow, at first, and then as Scott’s climax began to near, sharp where his hipbones slapped against the back of Charles’ slick thighs.

Scott reached a hand forward to fist it in Charles’ hair, and despite the fact that Charles had been lolling his head across the pillow, disoriented from the heady lure of Scott’s alpha scent, he remembered with distinct clarity how Scott’s voice had sounded in his own head— _[I could make him imprint and he wouldn’t be able to say no.]_

It took an entire minute of struggling for Scott to realize what was happening. He stopped abruptly, panting like a racehorse straight off the track, and had jerked his head back rather violently. “Charles...?” Scott said, his voice rough and breathless, nothing like the clarity it had a moment before, in Charles’ _head_.

“Get off me,” Charles had choked. Scott immediately complied, his cock slipping out with a bounce—still hard—and they both sat there, panting.

“Charles,” Scott tried. Charles could hardly turn to look at him. He was terrified, and _confused_.

“Charles—“

“Leave,” Charles told him, so quiet it might not have been heard. It was the last thing he ever said to Scott—the other boy gathered up his clothes and quickly left the room. It may not be coincidence that Charles never saw him again.

He learned two things that night. The first—

You’re a telepath, Charles. _Surprise!_

And the second: every alpha is the same.


	3. Chapter 3

“... _rumors have been circulating surrounding the court ruling earlier this morning on what She of TV4 has dubbed the_ Lehnsherr Affair _. The week-long trial has culminated in several counts of libel charges against_ Millennium _’s chief editor, Charles Xavier, who penned the controversial denouncement of Lehnsherr Group three weeks ago. The court found the evidence provided in the exposé to be from non-credible sources. Herr Lehnsherr has not released any comment on the situation, although at a press release earlier this month Lehnsherr Group’s lawyer, Azazel Melekhov, told on-scene reporters that the claims made by Xavier are indeed unfounded. At this time, Xavier faces a maximum of three months in prison...”_

“Would someone please turn that telly off?”

At half past twelve on a weeknight, the closest bar to Charles’ apartment was scarcely populated. The nearest body was an older beta woman sitting at the opposite end of the counter. She looked up when Charles spoke, her brow twitching irritably, though his angry, slurred words were directed at the damn telly, _not_ her.

He could’ve sworn it was on mute; from his seat at the far back of the bar though, it might as well have been on full volume. His head hurt.

Charles reached for another shot of tequila lined up on the counter.

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” a smooth voice remarked behind him.

He ignored it, downing the shot in a single swallow. Uncoordinated, he attempted to wipe away the trickles that hadn’t made it into his mouth with the sleeve of his cardigan. For a long moment, he couldn’t quite remember what had happened to his coat.

There was movement as someone claimed the stool beside him—unwelcome, he’ll have them know. Then that voice was there again, chuckling good-humoredly. “I’ll admit, I’m impressed. You must drink all your friends under the table.”

Charles glared at them—oh, him. Charles glared at _him_. The man in the peacoat who thought he could sit next to Charles and smile like it was any of his business.

“Pardon?” Charles said, tilting his head back because the man was way too big—Charles couldn’t see all of him—and narrowed his eyes in growing suspicion. “Are you trying to cut me off? Mind, it’s none of your business what I drink and how much of it goes down.”

Gabrielle once told him that he was an extremely chatty drunk. However, he always forgot where he was and could speak only slow, accented English until the very moment he was sober again—usually to the consternation of _Millennium_ ’s employees, most of whom knew only Swedish. As a consequence, he was also the lonely drunk that everyone at the party ignored, for lack of communication.

Curiously enough, the man sitting next to him at the bar understood every word he said. In fact, he had initially addressed Charles in English. And the man had a very peculiar accent. Some form of Arabic... Egyptian, perhaps?

“I know that look,” the man laughed. “You’re figuring me out.” He lifted his hands in mock surrender. “I have nothing to hide. In fact, I was looking for you. Charles Xavier, no?”

Charles gave the man another surly look. “I have nothing to say to any reporters. Leave.”

“Ah, well, this is awkward then, because I am definitely not a reporter.” The man had a crooked smile. It was not unattractive. “My name is En Sabah Nur. I believe we met at an office party a few years back.”

Come to think of it, Charles thought, the name was exceedingly familiar. He slowly attempted to parse what that meant.

Herr Nur wasn’t a tall man; he was older though, the curls along his ears and nape streaked with a modest amount of grey. Charles himself began to grey in his mid-twenties. The reminder made him immediately self-conscious, and he only realized after he’d pushed the imaginary hair back from his face—an excuse to run a hand through it—that En Sabah’s hot gaze had followed his every move.

“I was seeing Emma Frost at the time,” En Sabah supplied. He slid closer along the counter as Charles blinked at him, owlish. “We haven’t kept in touch, you understand. But I did hear from a colleague that she edits for her own magazine nowadays.”

Yes, that. Charles had to think for a moment. Emma... was their PR manager up until they ran that story about Sebastian Shaw the previous year. The man’s lawyers had said some particularly nasty things to her during the whole ordeal, and not long after Shaw’s tax firm went bankrupt, she went to Gabrielle with her two weeks’ notice. Charles hadn’t had any hard feelings for Emma, given her choice; investigative journalism could get gritty.

Emma was a no-strings attached sort of woman. She’d been divorced, once; however, neither he nor Gabrielle had pried into the matter over the six years she’d worked for _Millennium_. She was baseline—a beta, although most of her short-term partners happened to be omegas.

En Sabah’s aftershave smelt of freshly cut rosewood, and something deeper, more woodsy and crisp. Charles’ eyes widened. The bar was suddenly too warm, the man too close. There was no disguising the alpha musk concentrated along the man’s neck. The collar of his peacoat lay open, exposing his scarf—pulled aside almost too neatly—and beneath that, a generous amount of clavicle peaked out.

Charles pressed the flat of his tongue against the roof of his mouth, swallowed the taste back like one of his shots. The next time he breathed, he did so through his parted lips. He still felt much too drunk for this conversation.

“What do you want?” He tried to line his words with steel, but even in the bar’s dim light, there would be no mistaking how wide his pupils had grown.

The alpha tilted his head. It had Charles’ focus narrowing to the sharp line of that jaw, the faint shadow of scruff there. Damn.

“Might it be forward of me,” En Sabah purred, sidling further into Charles’ space, “If I were to tell a celebrity that I’m a bit—hmm. Perhaps star-crossed is the word?”

“It might,” Charles hissed through his teeth. He readjusted on his seat, aiming for subtle and likely missing it by a mile. The crotch of his pants would soon be too tight for comfort.

Charles... had no illusions when it came to his designation. Omegas, male and female both, were expected to settle down and push out two or three babies at some point in their life. It was biology. Omegas had much higher fertility rates than betas while alpha females, he knew, were almost negligible in that respect.

But since that night, twenty-five years ago, that he’d nearly spent with _Scott Summers_... nothing was ever quite so easy for Charles again. There’d been a few betas for him over the years, one of which he came frighteningly close to marrying, even—but never alphas. Of course, Gabrielle had been an exception from the beginning. She was the only person other than Raven who knew what happened when Charles touched the skin of another human being.

Twenty-five years later, and still—if Charles wasn’t overly careful, any manner of sexual act could be... overstimulating.

En Sabah pressed his leg alongside Charles’ own; it created a searing line of heat from hip to calf, something that Charles hardly noticed beneath the smog of pheromones the alpha was leaking like a furnace.

It wasn’t normal for Charles to be this receptive—sober, Charles would hardly have given him the time of day. But the stress of the past month had all culminated in the events of the morning, and at the end of the day, the court trial’s passing had taken with it the last vestiges of adrenaline that had kept Charles functioning all these weeks.

Charles was desperate for something for himself. He hadn’t felt so hung-out to dry since graduate school, and in his current state, the promise of getting off ranked much higher than any reservations he might have with the person who did it for him.

When a heavy hand settled on Charles’ waist, he had a brief flash of panic. He glanced down at it. Herr Nur’s hands were gloved in fine, expensive leather. Charles breathed out easy.

Gloves would make this do-able. Plus, it eliminated the need for Charles to incongruously slip on a pair of his own.

“Let’s continue this outside,” Charles murmured. The alcohol still muddled his senses, but he was cognizant enough of the situation to know that, should they remain where they were, they would certainly cause a scene.

En Sabah slanted him another crooked, devilish smile. “After you.”


	4. Chapter 4

_MISSING PERSON (d. 1970) –_

> _Sixteen year old Uppsala native Jean Grey was last seen the afternoon of the annual Children’s Parade in Hedestad, which extends from the municipal square over into Hedeby Island for the course of the entire day [...] authorities believe Grey to have disappeared sometime between lunching in Hedestad and joining friends at a locally rented cabin in the upper part of the island. At this time, an ongoing search is underway. Civilians are advised to report any information or possible sightings to the Hedestad Polis Station, telephone [redacted] ..._

 


	5. Chapter 5

Several weeks after his surprise meeting with Hank McCoy, Charles had already forgotten about it. That was the way of the job, really: next month’s big story constantly on the bend, and Charles running himself ragged in order to keep up.

Then something peculiar had arrived at his door. Although Charles was used to undercover digging and, on occasion, the even shadier methods _Millennium_ employed to get the information he wanted, none of that had ever been connected to his apartment. It was done at the _Millennium_ offices through an off-grid server that synced to his personal computer. Any tangible evidence—records, work orders, and that such—was posted to the office P.O. box.

Which is why Charles had been baffled to find a lumpy envelope mixed in with the junk mail on his apartment floor. However the landlord managed to fit it through the mailslot, he hadn’t the faintest clue, and yet...

Charles had shaken out the envelope’s contents right there in the front hallway.

It was a thumb drive.

Charles was many things, but patient? His natural curiosity was much too stubborn a beast. He’d only just returned from a long day at the office, but no sooner had he decided the mystery of the drive to be worth his while was he in another taxi on the way back. The _Millennium_ building was dark by that point, every other employee already tucking in at home, so he had to impose upon the night watchman to let him inside.

He may have had his moment of doubt then, mere seconds before he pushed the drive into the computer port in his closet-size office. Thinking back, in hindsight—that was his first mistake.

He should’ve destroyed that thumb drive the second it fell into his hand.

There was no name attached to the drive, only a series of numbers and scrambled letters. The files were the important bit. There were two.

The first was very clearly some sort of inventory stock. At the top was the name and stationary marker of the pharmaceutical company Hank McCoy had whispered about in the lowest of tones nearly four weeks ago. It clicked: _Hank had sent him the thumb-drive._

As for the second file, it held a photocopied letter of correspondence from the company’s warehouse supplier. _Hank you daft fool_ , Charles remembered thinking. Though the letter was only one side of the conversation—Hank’s initial message hadn’t been included—it was very obvious what Hank had asked. _These numbers can’t be right. They’re too high._

The catch? The incorrect numbers fell under only two categories: prescription narcotics and tranquilizers.

In Charles’ experience, some of his worst-received exposés also happened to be the hardest to write. The first that came to mind was the Shaw case just last year. Shaw’s tax firm was one of the largest in Europe at the time that Charles began his investigation, and it hadn’t looked good from the outset. Many journalists had treaded the same cautionary ground before him. All of them had emerged empty handed, and in certain cases, a touch scathed in the process.

But the thing was, Sebastian Shaw had gotten sloppy. His firm had weaseled its way into a variety of money laundering organizations. And if one looked close enough, a trail of breadcrumbs linked Shaw back to every one of them. The hard part was figuring out which of these organizations could be proved guilty in court; once Shaw was burned at the stake by the press, all of his other suppliers would pull out instantly.

An oiling corporation by the name of Summers ExCo had taken up base in Hedestad, Sweden in the mid-60s. They were one such organization that Charles could never pin. Coincidentally, Summers ExCo owned the warehouse that supplied Hank’s pharmaceutical company. From there, Charles’ work became much, much easier.

He’d dug a little deeper into Hedestad’s corporate presence. Summers ExCo, as far as he could tell, ran a perfectly legal operation up until the beginning of the 70s— _what had changed?_

The only remarkable information from the local papers around that time was a sixteen-year-old girl that went missing in 1970. _No relation?_ Charles filed the idea away for later.

It wasn’t until a newspaper clipping dated twenty years ago brought him up short. Summers ExCo was bought out by the premier mining big-shot on the rise—the German-renowned Lensherr Group. Technically speaking, Summers ExCo still owned itself; but any out-sourcing would come from Lensherr Group in future—no outside negotiations.

Lehnsherr Group, which appeared overly invested in companies based in remote areas where a significant number of disappearances had been reported over the last fifteen or so years. Lehnsherr Group, which owned stock in pharmaceutical companies, which had been _illegally trafficking hard prescription drugs under the table to god knows where._

These findings brought with it a certain pull of wrongness in Charles’ stomach. He felt sick. Lehnsherr Group’s monopoly over certain areas in Sweden and abroad must have kept many more disappearances from the papers.

Despite this, Charles had sat up calmly in his desk chair in his cramped office, and had thrown his gaze out over the sea of dark cubicles beyond his window. He’d grinned, slow and wicked. _Got you._


	6. Chapter 6

When Charles was nineteen, his sister ran away from home.

Well, _Mother_ claimed she ran away. Charles, on the other hand, was certain for years afterward that Raven had been kidnapped, or worse—murdered, her body never found. He never accepted that Raven would abandon him like that, _could_ abandon him like that.

And yet... they never found her.

The summer of 1977 was uncharacteristically hot in England, and since Raven’s birthday the past January, she was all of thirteen years old. Where would she get the money for it? The transport? The bloody _passport_?

Between one season and the next, Charles had switched his course to journalism school. And the rest, the say, was history.

Anyone who insisted he had made a mistake, who told him Raven was gone and he shouldn’t waste the rest of his life chasing after her ghost—they were wrong. Charles was right where he wanted to be. He was _doing_ what he wanted to do.

Because nothing added up, and Raven was alive.

Raven _had to be_ alive, because he’d sacrificed so much to get back just an inch of what Sharon had taken from him, and that...

... happened to be a perfectly reasonable thing for him to be thinking about while En Sabah Nur’s lips were wrapped around his cock.

He was losing it, almost certainly; his eyes were lidded, and for some reason he couldn’t make himself look at the nest of curls atop En Sabah’s head as the man worked Charles’s half-hard cock over his open fly. En Sabah’s coat was actually a deep shade of royal blue—not the black it had appeared to be inside the bar. A nuanced difference, really. Charles watched the shift of the material over those wide shoulders as En Sabah moved his head up and down.

It must’ve been the color. Damn himself, he was still slipping. Between sluggish, half-lucid blinks, he saw the smoke-stained brick that ran up the opposite wall of the alley. Blink. Raven’s smile circled in honey-hued curls. Blink. Wall. Blink. A yellow sundress and a slip of scales along one shoulder, Raven smirking. _You know I’m always careful_. Blink. Wall. Blink. _Blue_.

The distinct pop of his own cock falling from En Sabah’s mouth was loud in the narrow space. The white-noise of traffic was far off and distant, as was the occasional wailing of sirens throughout the city. But then there were En Sabah’s broken pants for breath against Charles’ thigh, the rough cough he muffled against his coat sleeve.

“You wanna tell me what’s on your mind?” En Sabah asked point-blank, chin lifting expectantly. There was annoyance there too, but it was muted beneath the smile he let curl his lips, so precise it could only be weaponized temptation.

“Nothing,” Charles slurred. Everything. And how much he _hated_ it all. “Keep going,” he called forth a smile that was known to appease more than just a few aggravated publicists in his day. “You were doing so well.”

Had that smile always felt this sloshy? Shite—he couldn’t remember what day it was. Friday? It was ballsfuck cold out, and there was a man on his knees in front of Charles with dribbles of spit glistening in the corners of his reddened mouth.

“Mmm.” Pressure on his hips. En Sabah was pushing Charles further into the wall of the bar, until his back aligned flat against the grimy brick and En Sabah’s eyes were darkening with knife-sharp appraisal.

“You know,” the alpha purred, lifting one hand from where he’d pinned Charles as easy as any fly in a carefully crafted web—“I prefer my omegas to give me their _absolute_ attention.” He grabbed ahold of Charles’ cock again, pumping it to full hardness with the spit left on his glove from earlier slicking the way.

There were so many things Charles could say to that. Really, he picked the best time to get _indignant_ , of all things. “M’not _your_ anything.” But his limbs were heavy at his sides, and as inebriated as he was, there was not much he could do but squirm fruitlessly.

“Whatever you say, darling,” En Sabah replied after an amused, throaty chuckle. “Now,” and here he _twisted_ , sending toe-curling sparks of pleasure up the base of Charles’ spine, “I’ve been patient, but this game is getting old. Tell me... who is your source?”

Memory of the day’s trial came rushing in, hot and unwelcome. Charles’ stomach clenched uneasily. He was too drunk—exactly like he had wanted it, yes. But not like _this._

Miserably, Charles choked out, “They convicted me because—because I couldn’t tell them. And they—” He felt the beginning of a sob quivering in his gut. “They kept asking me, and I didn’t _say_ anything. Called me a bloody _liar_ and a—” He started to shake, but the sudden hotflash of his misery was spilling back over into the anger he’d pent up since that morning. His hands made tight fists against the wall.

“Anger looks good on you,” En Sabah remarked. In a fluid move, he stretched upward along Charles’ front, the tug of his hand over the head of Charles’ cock growing quicker and unbearably wonderful. Then he was leaning in, their mouths a breath apart. “But it doesn’t make you stronger than me.” En Sabah huffed another laugh, burying a hand in Charles’ hair and jerking him back against the brick. Charles was forced to meet his eyes. “I have my tricks now, don’t I?”

There was no longer a need for En Sabah’s hands on Charles’ hips, not when the man could effectively pin Charles now with his entire body. Distantly, Charles felt the warm burn of his own slick soaking the fabric between his thighs and the embarrassing, pulsing _want_ that came with it as he neared climax.

En Sabah was as composed as ever; Charles would not realize it until much, much later, but the alpha had yet to make any sort of move toward his own erection—and Charles was sure of the fact, at the very least, that En Sabah had clearly had one earlier.

The hand working Charles’ cock was suddenly gone, and Charles had to bite off a pained whine when En Sabah pulled the glove off with his teeth. Between all of it—the burning in his open hole, the pressing wetness between his legs and the cloying thickness of alpha pheromones, making Charles dizzy—Charles only belatedly panicked at the sight of En Sabah reaching his now bare hand towards Charles’ cheek. Then En Sabah bypassed it entirely, curling his fingers around Charles’ ear to the patch of skin that hid his scent gland.

En Sabah smirked, devilish once more. He looked victorious, but then again, there was no way he could know about— “You’ll find my power to be _quite_ persuasive.”

His fingers were uncharacteristically cool when they came into contact with Charles’ skin. The thought was a helpless one, for there were only mere moments before En Sabah’s thoughts started rushing in, all at once, like a dam giving out between them.

“Charles,” En Sabah began calmly, almost sweet, “tell me who your—[ _tell me, tell me, tell me_ ]—source is.”

_[No one’s ever lasted this long.]_

_[I should talk to Melekhov. See if he knows why.]_

_[Worth it for the money. I would’ve done this for free.]_

_[Lehnsherr won’t believe how beautiful he is in person—]_

**_“Stop.”_ **

If it weren’t for the passing dance of headlights up the sunken brick of the alleyway, Charles would have been certain that the entire world had frozen at his word. Rather, he found, once he managed to open his eyes—as painfully as he had squeezed them shut not an entire minute before—he found... that the alpha before him wasn’t moving.

En Sabah stood in the exact position he had been in when he had first touched Charles. Only, there was an almost uncanny discomfort to be found in his open mouth, halfway to another taunt, and in the set of his eyes on Charles’ panting mouth, frozen in place. The man wasn’t breathing either, and after several more gasps for air, Charles broke away from the cover of his body. 

The moment En Sabah’s fingers broke contact with Charles’ skin, the man collapsed in a heap on the ground. Not dead—a quick glance told Charles as much. But passed out, certainly... and from the looks of it, now breathing the steady way of the deep asleep.

Charles was hyperventilating. He had done that. He had—

This was why he couldn’t. This was why he couldn’t _touch_.

“God, I’m—” his voice was a harsh rasp, rough with grief. “I’m—” _Not human_ , he didn’t say aloud.

He wasn’t thinking rationally, he knew. There was alcohol still in his system, sloshing unhappily in the pit of his stomach. Somewhere within the mish-mash of Herr Nur’s thoughts had been something... unsettling. But without a clear head, it was much harder to recall it perfectly. The feeling was there though, niggling at the base of his skull like the small, curious flame of a candle.

His head hurt.

Charles needed to get out of the alley.

He needed to call Gaby.

Sparing one last glance toward the body strewn haphazardly across the cobblestone— _I did that, but how?_ —Charles shakily tucked himself back into his pants and dug through his pockets for his cellphone, ignoring that line of thought in favor of reigning his growing panic in. He made a beeline for the street. Hopefully, he could flag down a passing taxi.

He only prayed that Gaby was still up at nearly two in the morning.


	7. Chapter 7

**WARNING - DISTRIBUTION PROHIBITED UNDER NEW YORK LAW. INITIAL PUBLISHING TERMINATED**

**Localized Effects of Forced Bonding in Dynamic Chimpanzees and Orangutans**

Essex N., et al. Department of Ecology and Evolutionary Biology. Yale University: 1962.

Abstract retrieved from _Studies in Dynamics_ , vol. 9 (32):

> _The evolutionary anomaly of_ Designation Dynamics _has been observed in nearly four-hundred primate species of the haplorhini suborder, which includes tarsiers and simians,_ homo sapiens _among the latter clade. The fossil record dates its adaptational emergence as far back as the Paleocene Epoch approximately sixty-six million years ago, where Dynamics—or in common vernacular, the Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamic—is believed to have co-evolved alongside dietary differentiation in mammals._
> 
> _As previous issues have cited, the Paleocene Epoch marked the first period in which mammals moved to fill the ecological niche left in the wake of the mass extinction event of the late Cretaceous, which wiped out all non-avian dinosaurs and giant marine reptiles. Early Paleocene demonstrates the first appearance of Hunter-Schregar bands (HSB) in placental mammals, the presence of which allowed for evolution of the ability to chew. This adaptation was critical for differentiation of herbivores and carnivores from insectivores. The shape of fossilized skulls belonging to_ Pantolambda _posits that Dynamics first evolved in this species of primitive terrestrial horse._
> 
> _In a study conducted across twelve zoos, researchers from Yale University observed Dynamic design in two species of primates: chimpanzees and orangutans. Zoological facilities were chosen based on willingness to sign non-disclosure agreements. Of the twelve, one pulled out before results could be finalized. Of the latter eleven, four had disastrous fatalities by the end of the study. These four were unable to contribute data to charts 5(ii) and 8(iv)._
> 
> _Social groups for both species were divided into two categories: natural and artificial. Each participant zoological facility housed one group from each category in similar housing and enrichment conditions. Six facilities specialized in chimpanzee housing while the other six specialized in orangutans._
> 
> _Researchers observed NATURAL social groups under the following conditions: ten animals (paired) in a locked environment, regular feedings. After such a point, food was restricted and any subsequent behavior noted. Dynamic displays in times of minimal resource provision prompted both chimpanzees and orangutans to kill both their own mates and the mates of others. This behavior was noted only in alphas, of which all groups had a total of (3). Forced bonding of the remaining omegas occurred in consequence. Betas were never chosen as mates, but on occasion would be killed for intervening._
> 
> _Researchers observed ARTIFICIAL social groups under the following conditions: ten animals (unpaired) in a locked environment, regular feedings. After such a point, pairs were split up and shuffled together. Animals that did not respond to mating prompts were subject to medical intervention, either by Rut Inducers in alphas or Heat Pheromones in omegas. Betas were placed in pairs as the control group._
> 
> _Forced bonding does not occur naturally in 99% of Dynamic species. Studies of this type have no foundation in the natural populations of either chimpanzees or orangutans, thus, no baseline of analysis was set for in-lab behavioral conduct. Over the course of eighteen days, researchers noted behavior across all pairings and used control groups as a comparison._
> 
> _In all forced bondings, NATURAL and ARTIFICIAL, omegas refused advances and showed outward signs of pain during bonding. Previous mating studies cite alpha pheromones as the leading cause of receptivity in omegas. However, researchers concluded that when bonding is not a mutual desire of both the omega and alpha, omegas may refuse the mating up until the copulation itself initiates. This correlates to the medical interventions conducted by the facilities. Induced Heat Pheromones triggered overwhelmingly pleasurable reactions to initiated copulation. CITED: Alphas retain lucidity during copulation; omegas unaffected by the presence of Heat Pheromones retain lucidity until approximately one minute (NOTE: average taken from a total of 2,364 data points) before climax (von Doom et al, 1960)._
> 
> _Behavior in omegas across all groups diverged up to three hours after bonding (margin of error >.00046). Omegas refused to interact with zookeepers, ignored offerings of food, and spent 90% of the day sleeping. When awake, omegas moved sluggishly and exhibited signs of mental deterioration (NOTE: the four instances of disastrous fatalities involved the animal beating its head against enclosure walls before succumbing to injuries, in all cases)._
> 
> _Forced bondings that survived a two week ‘grace period’ began to mirror the control group (normal bondings, betas), with one exception. Alpha aggression spiked dramatically across all forced pairs. Initial findings found omegas forced into bonds to become subdued, but after the ‘grace period’ return to original behavior observed prior to bonding with new alphas. Contrarily, alphas went out of their way to chase off zookeepers before their omegas could be approached. Throughout the course of the ‘grace period’ alphas and omegas carried out sexual activities as normal (i.e., simultaneously observed in non-forced beta pairs). Ruts began to trigger more frequently and heats less so._
> 
> _Our findings suggest that forced bonding in Alpha/Omega pairs causes hypersexuality, hyperaggression, territorialness and unpredictability in alphas and, initially, severe emotional disfigurement in omegas. Omegas recovered after a period of 2-3 weeks; however, alphas retained these observed characteristics._
> 
> _Observations of remaining forced pairs did not conclude until approx. one month after initially stated. An anomaly presented itself in the data, and further study became necessary. In addition to the above stated, alphas began ‘orbiting’ omegas in a highly uncharacteristic manner. Alphas followed their paired omega around the enclosure, brought them food, and provided assistance in the event of any disturbance. We may conclude that, in accordance with this anomalous behavior, alphas exhibited mental degradation in a manner not dissimilar than observed earlier in omegas. Although the data is in-conclusive, this is believed to have begun at the same time that omegas regained their faculties after the ‘grace period’._
> 
> _The exact nature of the involved brain chemistry is unknown at this time._
> 
> _After the study concluded, all alphas were euthanized for the safety of staff._
> 
> _CITED: [redacted], [redacted]_


	8. Chapter 8

“You did _what?_ With that—that egomaniacal, manipulative _prick?”_

Charles hunched down in his desk chair, nervously rubbing his hands along his thighs.

“I can’t believe you!” Gabrielle yelled next, utterly unsympathetic to Charles’ complete exhaustion at the early hour and the distinct odor of vomit stuck to his clothes, the same ones he’d worn to the courthouse yesterday morning, no less.

The muted, grey light of dawn was the only light which filled the nooks of _Millennium’s_ main floor. Charles’ office was no different, and he was thankful for the fact that it was easy on his eyes, sensitive still from his hangover.

Charles could only shake his head meekly in reply. It was true that he was an absolute idiot, but he hated to think that, beyond that, he’d also kept Gabrielle up all night worried sick because of it.

After En Sabah had passed out in that alley, Charles had made it maybe two blocks before the alcohol went completely to his head—and he’d done much the same, his cellphone still pressed to one ear. He couldn’t remember dialing it or Gabrielle picking up, for that matter, but she had heard enough to know he was in trouble. Unfortunately, she hadn’t learned much else.

By the time he regained consciousness on a bus bench some hours later... Gabrielle was not so amused to get a second call. Honestly, he’d expected her to show up at _Millennium_ ’s offices with no less than five paramedics in tow.

He leaned forward and dropped his face into his hands. “I know,” he placated, almost in a whine, “I _know_. I can’t do anything without fucking it all up.” God, his head was pounding. His eyes were burning and his mouth tasted sourly of ripe pish.

“I don’t think you fully understand what you’ve done,” Gabrielle said then. She stopped in the middle of the frantic pacing she’d taken up in front of his desk and sent him a withering look. Not that Charles had given much focus to what she was wearing, in light of more important matters at present, but now that he was—it looked very much liked she’d thrown on the nearest blouse and rumpled skirt and hurried out the door. Her hair was in disarray, and there were no signs of the blush and lipstick she favored most days.

“En Sabah Nur is with _Monopoly Financial Magazine_. Those worthless sacks of shit that worked turncoat for Lehnsherr Group? Fuck, Charles—I know I did most of the legwork putting a lid on their runny mouths, but please tell me you actually _read_ my reports!”

Yes, well, forgive him for getting _hammered_ the night of his own _trial_. Charles and alcohol was never a good mix, but if there was one thing he knew to be a constant in his life, it was the few hours of ignorant bliss drinking allowed him—that allowed him to _escape_. And last night, he’d needed a clean cut from those emotions more than ever.

“I remember him now,” Charles bit out, sufficiently chastised. “The office party with Emma... “

“Where he made an ass of himself sleazing on that poor intern and Emma was forced to intervene? Clearly, we’re being selective here.”

Charles flinched back in his chair. The wince that tugged at his lips brought with it the added bonus of rekindling the sting in his cheek, a consequence of his having slept through the early hours of the morning with half his face buried in an uncomfortable pillow riddled with splinters.

Stupid. Charles was so _stupid_. Because that... well, after Emma had dumped Herr Nur, out of spite the man had run straight to one of _Millenniu_ m’s top competitors with his resume. How could Charles have forgotten that one tiny, inconsequential detail?

Whatever must have been showing on his face, it made Gabrielle grow at once quiet. Her delicate eyebrows pulled together, and the pity in her eyes—coming from _her_ , of all people—nearly left him gutted. “Charles, I’m... not going to apologize for being worried, or yelling at you, but you have to realize—this guy is bad news. If you told him anything, and I mean _anything_ , he’ll go crawling right back to Lehnsherr Group with it.”

There was a neat collection of fountain pens in a jar by the computer modem on Charles’ desk. All black, save for a single abused red corrector that happened to be a frequent target of his nervous chewing, those harried nights he spent editing just before deadline. He had to clamp down on the need to teeth at it even now, just for some kind of distraction.

“The reports...,” Charles mumbled, chin dipping down to his lap. But then—it dawned on him. He jerked his head upward again, eyes wide. “It was him. En Sabah Nur. He’s the one who was feeding them my info all along.”

Gabrielle nodded, grave. “If I didn’t have the job pinned on him before, I sure as _hell_ do now.”

The real question was _how_. Hacking? Phone taps? Of course, neither would be a problem financially with Lehnsherr Group backing it. But it still stood to reason that En Sabah had to have had an alternate means to figuring out the next big corporation on Charles’ list—how did he know Charles was after Lehnsherr Group to begin with?

The way the alpha had touched him behind that bar came to mind, bare fingers and an electric jolt unlike Charles had ever felt from his ability alone, the words a compelling litany in his head—

_tell me tell me tell me_

“Gaby,” Charles said quickly. His throat felt much too tight now, and the sourness in the back of his mouth was only intensifying. He could have sworn it was the coppery taste of blood. “Nur kept asking me who my source was.”

Completely contradictory to the situation, Gabrielle rolled her eyes in that fabricated, haughty way of hers. It was the very persona she put on to mess with the tabloids who continued to give her relentless grief even so many years after things had officially ended between the two of them.

“You were drunk, Charles. I know you. You get mouthy, and emotional on top of it all.” At the sound of Charles’ token protest, she leveled him with a pointed glare. “Don’t you dare give me that look,” she growled, before appearing to calm herself, her shoulders relaxing once again. “Are you certain you didn’t say anything about your...,” here she paused, lifting one hand to wiggle her fingers near her temple. It was a bit crass, really, but Charles caught the meaning.

“No, I—” He remembered what had bled through their link with startling clarity, a stark contrast to everything else that came before and after that single moment in time, when En Sabah’s fingers stood cool against Charles’ overheated, vulnerable skin. Not that Charles had much experience with his—ability—not when he’d gone and gotten himself shite-faced drunk. “Nothing,” he finished on a whisper. “I said nothing. We only... interacted.”

At the sight of the cold fury creeping into Gabrielle’s features, Charles swallowed thickly.

“Sexually,” he clarified on a quick breath, then hurried to add, almost weakly, “But nothing above the waist.”

It was almost three years, exactly, since the accident. But it wasn’t as though Charles kept careful count of the days, or anything—that would be decidedly unhealthy of him. He only recalled the day of the month, a Tuesday, and the time of the morning: approximately 8:15, thereabouts. Though he only knew as much going by the departure time stated on his and Gabrielle’s train tickets, which was set for half eight.

That day had been a long one. He and Gabrielle were in Gothenburg for a weekend conference that dragged on much too long. After, they returned to their hotel room late enough to warrant staying just one more night, and planned to catch the early train back to Stockholm the next day.

Gabrielle wore her most brilliant designer coat and sunhat that morning at the train station, resplendent white that fit snugly over a grey frock and a pair of her comfiest stockings. Even for so early an hour, she always said she lived for the feeling of sporting her best clothes in the most public of places, the confidence boost like none other. And at the station in Gothenburg, she was for a change anonymous—neither she nor Charles was often recognized at a glance outside of Stockholm, if at all.

There’d been a small mix up with the tickets. The attendant mistakenly printed those for the same train and departure time that left the following day. It was only fifteen minutes prior to their train leaving that Charles noticed the incorrect date printed on the slips, and he promptly abandoned Gabrielle with their luggage so he could dash across the platform to the attendant booth.

The line was dreadful, and Charles nearly went into a panic as the train began to board. They couldn’t afford to lose the three hours it would take for the next train out. One of the secretaries at the _Millennium_ offices had called Gabrielle’s cell just before they checked out of the hotel—something went wrong with the printers, and the magazine couldn’t afford to set back release for the next issue.

That in mind, Charles rushed back to Gabrielle without any concern for how fast he was moving through the crowded lanes. _Of course_ he hadn’t anticipated the need—not until much later, and in pitiable hindsight.

He didn’t see the cart until it had already happened. No, he only had eyes for Gabrielle’s back, where she’d turned round at the sharp whistle of one of the incoming trains. In a moment of unbidden sentimentality, Charles caught himself tracing the curl of her dark hair over her shoulder. _Even your backside is beautiful, love_ , he remembered thinking.

Then came the cleanest tear Charles had ever experienced. Ripping off the so-called bandaid, for lack of a better phrase. That is—

An overhasty luggage cart struck him in the side, and Charles slipped, plummeting over the edge of the platform. Later, the doctors would toss about the most complex of jargon when the words they were looking for were really quite simple: blunt force trauma.

Charles landed on his lower back. His back, which split straight across a steel two-by-four.

The very same doctors called it lucky, that the accident hadn’t left him paralyzed below the waist. How fortunate, the nurses simpered over his hospital bed, that an omega such as himself still had the chance to bear someone their adorable children.

A funny thing, that; their inane chatter went dead silent upon Gabrielle’s arrival in the room. His fiancé, whom had only been allowed inside on account of her family relation to him. A female beta. One of just two designations for which he could never conceive a child naturally.

No, the real consequences didn’t show until some time after. The hospital kept Charles under careful watch for three weeks in the wake of the corrective surgery that saved him the use of his legs. Gabrielle, in the interim, had gone back to Stockholm to salvage what she could of _Millennium_ ’s mess.

Mercifully, she wasn’t present when Charles woke to one of the nurses changing his bandages, or the horrific yelling fit he’d broken into when he felt her touch him with her _bare hands_.

There was a disconnect, buried somewhere in his hysteria, that for the first time in his life he couldn’t hear any thoughts but his own inside his head. Between the touch of the nurses’ feather-light fingertips along the edge of the gauze and the dissonant ache of _nothingness_ the gesture held, Charles realized that he _had_ been paralyzed after all. Just not in any way the doctors could ever know.

Back in Charles’ office, his confession hit the air like deadweight. Gabrielle deflated.

“Go home,” she told him, and pointed toward the door. “You’re no good for this conversation. Please, just, get yourself cleaned up and into an actual bed. Take the day off—the rest of the week. Just promise me you’ll be careful. And if you hear anything else from Nur, _call me_.”

“I will,” Charles insisted, and stood to leave. As he moved past Gabrielle he held her eyes, offered up a tremulous smile. “I’ll call the police, _then_ I’ll call you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've read some comic-verse Gabrielle, and am familiar with her character. Despite this, I can't help but imagine Gaby from The Man from Uncle whenever I'm writing her - Gabrielle in the comics wasn't nearly as developed, imo, thus I've somewhat blended the characters together for this fic. It's a constant reminder anyhow that I promised a friend of mine a dofp/man from uncle crossover Ages Ago, because Erik/Gaby is the Ship of Dreams tbh. Maybe one of these days.


	9. Chapter 9

As Charles climbed the cobbled steps that led up to his apartment complex, the last person he expected to see so early in the morning was the building’s superintendent. The man—Logan Howlett—sat behind a desk that fit snugly beneath the tiny lobby’s narrow, crooked staircase; most unusual, considering a flighty young girl by the name of Jubilee had been hired on a little over a year ago to do just that. Judging by the grim shape of Logan’s mouth, though, Charles had the growing suspicion that this was no longer the case.

When Logan caught sight of Charles, he raised his bushy eyebrows and opened his mouth, then appeared to think better of whatever he’d planned to say; closed it. His eyes swept down Charles’ body and back up again. Unlike the kind of leers that always made Charles uncomfortable in public and seedy bars, Logan’s scrutiny was decidedly clinical.

“Rough night, Chuck?” Logan asked by way of greeting, gruff. He tilted back in his roller chair and crossed his large, muscled forearms. “Water s’back on since six.” A thumb jabbed in the general direction of the upper floor. “Oughta hit the showers before you stink up the place, yeesh.”

For all the time Charles spent in the spotlight these past weeks, it was a welcome change to return to something _normal_. In this case, it was weathering the usual unapproachable, no-funny-business attitude that had made the superintendent so unpopular amongst the neighbors.

And for Logan to see him _now_ , clearly exhausted and disheveled, nowhere near his best...

Well, it went without saying—he and Logan had an ... understanding, of sorts. In the beginning, Charles attributed it to the man simply not caring one wit for idiocy in his building, much less the residents who were clearly plagued by it. But then, he treated Charles just like anyone else from day one when Charles had expected just the opposite.

Charles was an aging, unbonded omega living on his own, entirely independent, and if the tabloids were to be believed, he was much too focused on his career. In contrast to those whom Charles worked with on a daily basis, Logan was practically _kind._

 “... thank you, Logan. I’ll do that right away.” Charles met the man’s eyes for just a moment before ducking away, toward the stairs. The least Charles could do was not bother him—after all, Logan was currently the one human in the entirety of Stockholm that Charles knew wouldn’t attempt to talk to him about the trial, or really anything having to do with the immense failure his career had amounted to.

And there was no doubt that Logan knew about it. The state of the news media alone was a trifle terrifying since the whole debacle had started, and the thought of his name in so many gossiping mouths around the city gave Charles no small amount of anxiety.

It probably helped that Logan was a male omega, as well. In the eight years that Charles had lived in this building, he’d dealt with Logan really only a handful of instances for any extended period of time. That was often in passing, or if there was a problem in Charles’ apartment that needed fixing. And yet never once had he been made uncomfortable by the man. In fact, Charles could only ever procure a smile when presented with Logan’s surliness.

A smile that today, given the nature of his morning, was a tad strained.

“Chuck.” The nickname—one Charles had given up trying to dissuade the man from using—was said abruptly. Charles stopped several steps up the staircase, dearly hoping his nerves weren’t showing.

But when Charles looked back at Logan, he saw none of the pity in the man’s expression that he’d been expecting. There was only that same, casual aloofness. Whether it was patently false was impossible to tell—Logan did have quite the poker face.

Logan’s eyebrows jumped up again. “You gotta package.”

“... I do?”

Logan grumbled something beneath his breath. If anything, his eyebrows climbed higher. “You forget what day it is? Really?”

Charles didn’t follow. “Pardon? I’m not sure what you...”

The chair squeaked across the old linoleum as Logan pushed back from the counter. Then the man was bending over, rooting around one of the cabinets.

The package, when Logan procured it, hit the countertop with a distinct air of finality.

“... oh,” Charles could only say. Though he hardly noticed it leaving his mouth; in the resounding silence, he found himself staring for a long time. Charles swallowed, then shakily, he exhaled. “Y-yes. Thank you. Logan.”

Mechanically, Charles made his way back down the stairs. He picked the package up like it were a bomb. Several inches of space remained between it and his chest, and he kept his arms taut, almost as if he were holding the package out to Logan.

“I’ll just... be going,” Charles said distantly, his thoughts already a thousand miles away.

Of course Logan would be concerned. Though there was precious little Logan knew of Charles’ personal life, it was much harder to say the same for his... eccentricities.

The package, for all it was unassuming and plain, was very particular. Rectangular and flat, only an inch thick, and tied loosely with blue string. The string formed a misshapen bow on one side.

As far as Logan knew, Charles received the same package on the same day, every year. And Logan only knew as much because, even when a receptionist was on the pay roll, it had always been Logan’s job to sort mail into the boxes for each resident. Though Logan had never said as much in words, it was obvious that the recurring phenomenon made the man _curious_. Thankfully, never enough to ask Charles about it all these years. Yet—

How _could_ Charles have forgotten? It was the same package that he had received every year of his current residence as well as the fifteen years previous; no matter where Charles moved, the package had followed.

And in that moment, he hated himself.

It should have been impossible, but for the first time... Charles had somehow forgotten the one day of the year that he dreaded most.

A familiar nausea made its home in his stomach.

He forgot his sister’s birthday.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ended up shifting around a lot of the later chapters in this fic, so if you're eager to finally meet Erik for the first time... keep an eye out for chapter 16. It's probably my favorite I've written so far, as well as being the absolute Worst tease. ;)

Charles’ apartment was dark when he fumbled his way inside the front hall, and it was with an almost imperceptible sigh that he moved further in, flipping the light switch in the kitchen as he passed. Quick as he could, he deposited his package on the counter and busied himself with setting up the coffee maker.

Despite the usual exuberance with which Charles took to such an early hour, now he wanted nothing more than to slip beneath his own sheets in his own bed. Sleep an entire month away, even; give or take a week. His hangover still lingered, and truly, he’d been in an absolute sod of a mood from the get-go. The waking world was not ready for him.

For the time being, Charles could manage only tentative sips of black expresso as he leant back against the sink. The pain in his face was a distant ache now; surely Logan’s suggestion of a shower would not go remiss.

He passed a wary eye over the package.

A horrible, heavy guilt still weighed upon him. As if, after all that had happened these past months, the Lehnsherr case and all that came with the trial—the very thing Charles so dreaded most had arrived just in time to remind him how much of an _idiot_ he was.

 _The two of us against the world_ , Charles commiserated silently, hating himself all the while. _What utter bollocks._

There was a story to be said for it; the Package, capital ‘P.’ But one Charles had never breathed a word of to a single soul.

Charles had made the mistake, only once, of bringing up his childhood to Gabrielle. It had followed on the heels of one very particular subject: that of Charles’ disinheritance from the Xavier fortune, an event that occurred almost simultaneously with Raven’s disappearance.

He’d gone on to explain all but the finer details; how Mother had remarried soon after her bondmate, Charles’ father, had passed away. How the tearing of that bond had driven her nearly mad. How she could never quite take care of herself like she once could, despite the fact that before Brian Xavier’s death they had hardly spent much time together to begin with.

By then Charles was nearly twelve and Raven five, and the peace they had once lived in was coolly shattered by the arrival of a new stepfather, whom took immense relish in depriving them of the things they cared for most—be it the kind house staff, or books, or toys. All because the man _could._

The package, unassuming as it may have been... would always serve as a reminder of that time.

In that way, it haunted him.

Sighing again—more in preparation than anything else—Charles set his coffee down and searched around for a pair of scissors.

The yarn came free easily, the side of the package even more so. The quicker he opened it, the better, though once he’d gotten to that final bit, Charles squeezed his eyes shut, and simply _pulled._

It was the corners that came free first, followed by the stiff framing bent underneath. There was never much of a point in worrying what new terror he had received; the picture frame was always identical to the last detail—light, stained dark wood set round a square of blank white matting. And at its center...

Charles opened his eyes. Ah, that.

He was greeted, much in kind, with a curved stem of bluebells preserved beneath the glass.

It should have been alarming, how the sight did not stir in him the emotion it once had. What Charles felt now, really, was a lingering emptiness in his chest, as though he was too tired for neither grief, nor sorrow. Only... a thorough exhaustion of both body and mind.

Bluebells, the color of a deep, dark blue twined through with lighter shades of violet.

Charles rubbed at his eyes with finger and thumb, eyelids fluttering drowsily, and exhaled long and low. Routine. That’s what this was. Only routine—twenty-three years of the same bloody flower arriving in the post, just for him. If Charles had any energy left after the whole circus that had, evidently, become his life... he would _laugh._

The packages never included a return address. He’d tried tracing them several times over the decades; the shipping companies provided different locations of origin every time, none of which formed a reliable pattern. Berlin, Shenzhen, Mendoza, Quebec, Munich, Taipei. Round and round then back again, or so they would have him believe.

Charles’ mysterious sender was quite the ghost.

A right headache, too. Charles had to switch off: rubbing his eyes for pinching the bridge of his nose. He shook his head, more tired than anything, and plodded off in the direction of his bedroom. The picture frame he took along for the ride, held delicately in the crook of one elbow.

For the best, really, that he didn’t look or think too much into it. Not anymore. This package wasn’t the first; it would not be the last. After all, both first and last he still kept with the rest of his amassed collection, each hung on the wall opposite the outdoor balcony in neat rows of six. The one in Charles’ hands now—that he set down beneath the open space on the bottommost row. To be hung up with the others, soon as he could bother himself to find a nail.

Twenty-two bluebells pressed and framed forever. And here, the twenty-third.

 _Was it so long ago really_ , a distant, miserable part of Charles’ mind seemed to whisper, _near two decades and a half since Raven disappeared?_

Twenty-three bluebells, and a cut of yellow across the wall of glass from the lamp on Charles’ nightstand.

Twenty-three years since Raven was taken from him.

Charles eased down onto the edge of his mattress, and stared.

The first had come to Charles’ apartment, just off of Oxford’s campus, the January of 1978. That was just shy of seven months since Raven’s disappearance. In the intervening time, Charles had run himself ragged searching for her—getting pictures of Raven’s face in the local newspapers as well as abroad. Money had never been an issue, and was even less so as a means to convincing so many outlets to run the story, let alone as much as a blurb.

Sharon hadn’t been any help in that area, and neither was his stepfather. Contrary to fact, the two of them had moved on in hardly any time at all; Raven, an afterthought. By mid-November, Charles’ stepfather was thoroughly encouraging Sharon to find her troublesome omega son a _husband_ to keep him in line. An alpha, and one wealthy enough to embellish the already prominent Xavier name rather than detract.

Charles hadn’t read that particular letter past the third line. He promptly stashed it in the closest waste bin, then telephoned home to impress upon Sharon how wrong she was—both in her and Kurt’s attempts to control Charles in such a positively archaic way, as well as to the fact that _Raven is still alive and I_ will _find her_.

The next letter he received was from the family lawyer a week later. Sharon, no doubt convinced so by her overbearing alpha, called for Charles to be disinherited. Perhaps in another time either in past or distant future, Charles being nineteen—an adult, by all accounts—would have made this impossible. But as an omega... his rights to any fortune went straight to his residing _guardian_ until he reached the “settling age” of twenty-one.

Although Sharon hadn’t been absolutely heartless—Charles received a paltry sum to sustain him until the following semester, after which he would be on his own—two of the worst months of Charles’ life had followed, as he wrangled with finding Raven, his studies, and a job he picked up copyediting for a city press.

Then January had crept up on him again, and with Raven’s birthday fast approaching with yet no sign of her, Charles began to lose hope... that was, until the first of what would be many such packages had arrived at his door. And at once, it was possibly the surest sign that Charles was right— _Raven is alive, and she sent this as a clue, a message_ —but how? _Why?_

Had Raven simply run away after all?

The mattress was rather soft, when Charles lied down across it. Much softer than he remembered it ever being—horrid, stiff thing that it was. But that was the exhaustion talking, muting out the better parts of his working brain like a drug. Even the webbing of cracks in the ceiling plaster had started to blur. Fuzzy.

“Raven,” he mumbled. He bumped the side of a fist against his own temple, then repeated the movement, again and again. “What are you trying to _tell_ me? What are you...” and there Charles trailed off, squinting and blinking to dispel a fast-gaining unconsciousness.

He turned his face up toward the wall of framed flowers.

When he and Raven were children, the most sincere gift they ever received—be it one holiday or another—was from each other. Mother had always bought them the best books and dolls. The most expensive things money could buy. But that was as far as she ever went.

A pity, how pervasive was the idea nowadays: omegas, driven by instinct to protect and love their young. A truly harmful one, that. Growing up in the environment that Charles had then shipping off to England—the fact that he’d never cared much for babies, or finding a mate as most omegas were encouraged to do in their early 20s... it always made Charles feel very, very broken.

It had taken reaching his later years to recognize the falsity of this. Neither was Sharon really broken, nor was he himself. Omega ‘instincts’ for their children were nothing but a lie withheld by Hollywood drivel. For in truth, the strongest _instinct_ Charles had ever known was for his _sister_...

Whom had made it a point, every year that her birthday came round, to present Charles with a picking of bluebells from the mansion gardens. This was only one part of their tradition—the other was on Charles’ birthday in the early fall, when he would likewise give Raven an offering of cockscomb, a type of wool flower that grew along the front terrace. As children, they’d thought the entire idea, well, whimsical.

They meant the world to each other. What more, there was the matter of their shared secret. Thus... bluebells for Charles, a reminder of Raven’s scales; cockscomb for Raven, as the shape of their petals mimicked the folding of a brain—Charles’ ability having something to do with the innate chemistry of the mind.

Love. That was the most Charles could ever ascribe or surmise of Raven’s bluebells.

Raven was gone. And yet the packages continued to find him.

It drove him absolutely _miserable_.

Because there remained only one option; the years had not changed that. Whoever took Raven knew about the bluebells, and the package was nothing but a _taunt_.

Had to be. Why else would Raven never come home? Never contact him, never _—nothing._

Hot tears prickled in the corners of Charles’ eyes. They stung, much as his face did from his impromptu sleep on a bus bench. He could have showered—should have, really. But more than anything else, Charles couldn’t escape the thought that even that wouldn’t wash away his own uncleanliness.

Why did everyone have to leave him? Why was it always _him_ that was used and tossed aside like... like rotten _pish_.

Disgusting.

Before he realized what he was doing... Charles was undoing the button on his trousers, slipping fingers beneath and further—and grabbing hold of his limp cock.

Herr Nur hadn’t finished him off last night; a reprehensible decision, Charles wanted nothing more than the opposite, now. It was much harder—always, _always_ —to get up to an orgasm without someone else’s pheromones thrown in the mix. Last night... Charles recalled with enough detail to feel the ghost of the alpha’s hands down his sides and thighs. En Sabah’s scent had been thick and rich, and just one gulp of it had blown Charles’ arousal beyond proportion. He'd been half-hard as soon as it touched his tongue.

But it was also so long since Charles had last had a bed partner. Gabrielle, yes—a few weeks before their falling out. Betas were incomparable, though, in concept—Gaby’s pheromones had taken time, and much effort on both their parts, to stir in him the same that En Sabah had in seconds.

An... image curled round his thoughts, then. Herr Nur’s huge hands, grabbing and pawing; white teeth glinting beneath smirking, wet lips.

What did that make Charles then? Resorting to the way an alpha had handled him, to get off...? Where was his self-worth in doing so, when the same alpha had so casually taken advantage of him— _used_ him?

“Useless, rather,” came the faintest mumble from Charles’ parted, panting lips. “Worth _shite_. Cannot even get off on your own...”

Indeed, Charles’ cock had hardly reached half-mast. His fevered stroking had become much more the turn off; his cock laying limp in his hand.

Quite simply, Charles ached all over. He _hurt_ all over. And in the dim, yellowed light, he wanted nothing more than for his head to cease its fervent throbbing.

 _Tomorrow_ , he thought muzzily, as his hand slipped from the opening in his trousers. The pillows on his bed smelt of himself—and that, at least, was calming.

For now, he had the rest of the morning to sleep like the dead.


End file.
